


Bloody Words

by Quarantine_mademe_doit



Category: Powerpuff Girls
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Attempt at Humor, Brick Jojo-centric, Detective Blossom Utonium, Drama, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, F/M, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, Inspired by Castle (TV), Murder, Murder Mystery, Mystery, Writer Brick Jojo, almost a rewrite tbh, brick being horny on main, kind of, no beta we die like arnold matisse, warning for descriptions of crime scenes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-01
Updated: 2021-01-01
Packaged: 2021-03-10 16:28:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,470
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28490163
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Quarantine_mademe_doit/pseuds/Quarantine_mademe_doit
Summary: The night of his latest mystery book's publishing party in Citysville, Brick Jojo is approached by a detective who suspects him of being involved in a recent murder in Townsville. He joins the investigation and tries his hand at solving a real murder alongside Detective Blossom Utonium.
Relationships: Brick/Blossom Utonium
Comments: 8
Kudos: 50





	Bloody Words

**Author's Note:**

> this was written as a giant thank you for 10k (now 11k) hits on my other fic, Freeze and Thaw!!  
> i'm horribly late to post it, but i suppose it's better late than never. thank you all! <3
> 
> a warning: this oneshot includes graphic descriptions of crime scenes and death.

Being clever was a power of its own. And, like all things powerful, cleverness was both good and dangerous. The message was clear when it came to writing, and even clearer when it came to the misfortune of Johnny Davidson. Brick realized that as his favorite whiskey pleasantly burned his mouth on its way down. By no means was he an alcoholic like his main character, but special occasions called for special drinks. And the reveal of his latest masterpiece of a book was, indeed, a special occasion.

It felt so good. So great, so thrilling, so dangerous, so _powerful_ , to be the most important person in the room. People – publishers, editors and fans alike – all swarmed around him as the epicenter of interest. _Worse Things For Better Men_ attracted more attention than any of his previous books, mainly because it was the series finale. He smirked at the thought of his readers’ reactions to the protagonist’s death – it was sure to sting after eleven books’ worth of murderous adventures. Brick would have fun reading the hysterical Twitter threads later, but for now, he’d have a blast amid the crème de la crème of the Citysville writing community.

He clinked glasses with other authors, before turning away to discreetly roll his eyes – none of them could even hope to steal his spotlight. He chatted with a famous script writer, the shorter man hinting at a possible movie deal.

“Sir, I _live_ for that idea, but we’d have to talk about that with my editor,” Brick nodded, “Now, if you’ll excuse me…”

The marker in his breast pocket had begun to run dry from signing many a copy of his book, and his mouth craved another glass. He pushed his way through the crowd until he reached the bar.

“ _Kessler_ , on the rocks,” he told the bartender, a mop of blond hair at his side catching his eye. “You good?”

His brother’s head snapped up to attention, the screen of the phone in his hand lighting up his face at a weird angle. “I’m fuckin’ _great_.”

Brick pointed his chin to his phone. “Who you textin’?”

“Ex number one.”

“So, drunk?”

“A little.”

A loud _splash_ was heard from behind Brick. The two turned their attention to the sound, only to find the third triplet sharing (read: spilling) a bottle of champagne with two model-looking women. Brick retched and Boomer rolled his eyes.

“But not enough to do that.” The blond one announced, quietly drinking his vodka.

“Same,” Brick agreed, swiveling the ice in his glass before taking a sip, “Just don’t tell Prinny.”

“There you are!”

Speak of the devil…

Boomer shot him a look of _you owe me_ , quickly doing him a favor of hiding the whiskey. Brick silently thanked him for it as he turned to face the editor-in-chief-shaped devil.

The redhead bound up to him with a pointed finger. “Did you tell Carson something about a movie deal?”

He shrugged. “I may or may not have, yes, Princess.”

“ _Miss. Morbucks._ ” She insisted as she usually did. “Have you lost your mind? First killing your goldmine and now this?!”

He imitated her motion of waving hands accusingly. “Johnny Davidson _had_ to die at some point, it was all part of the plan.”

“Uh-huh, so just like that _planned vacation_ you promised me before you sent me another fucking manuscript? Very mature, Jojo.” Princess planted her hands on her hips. “I’m not letting you make that movie deal.”

“What the fuck! Why?!” He had to use so much self-control to keep his voice down.

“Because one: Carson can’t write a script to save his life and you know it, and two: you gave up on _The Millionaire Murderer_ that easily!”

“I didn’t give up! I told you already, it was planned!”

“Oh ‘planned’ my-” she began, then seemed to remember her surroundings and lowered her voice, - “Whatever. I _know_ it wasn’t planned, Jojo. You just hit a writer’s block.”

His eyes widened in offended ridicule. “ _What?_ ”

“Don’t you ‘what’ me,” Princess reprimanded, “I know this book took you longer than any book before, honey. _Ten times longer._ And I even extended your deadline by three months!”

Brick offered a nonplussed ‘tsk’, choosing to fearlessly go back to his drink.

“I quit.”

He coughed violently – oh, something definitely went down the wrong pipe. Boomer slapped him on the back, and Princess watched with a smile that bordered on sadistic.

“You wouldn’t,” Brick wheezed after nearly choking his lungs out.

“Try me.” She waved the bartender over for a margarita, cheekily pointing a well-manicured finger to herself. “If you don’t want to lose the best editor-in-chief Citysville has to offer _and_ my Daddy’s funding, you should probably have another manuscript on my table in six months. Otherwise, the only thing I’ll be editing is my own letter of resignation.”

“Shit.” Brick took a drawn-out moment to pick his jaw up off the floor. “I’d call you a bitch, but I know you’re into that.”

She smiled over her glass with a barely concealed glare. “I’d call you a tool, but that’d imply you’re useful.”

Snorting, Brick sat as far away as he could from the offending woman. Six months would be a breeze if she hadn’t been right – he has been struggling to write. It wasn’t a problem of motivation, the life of luxury was _plenty_ motivational, but rather, one of inspiration.

For years, he’d been slaving over Johnny’s character, building him up to his greatest version, only to have him die in the most anticlimactic way possible. That was the point he was trying to prove – that the people who lived the most glamorous lives at the expense of others, died like a rat in the gutter. It’s an ending Johnny Davidson deserved, only served faster, rushed, with much less flair than Brick would have preferred. There were no surprises left to pull, no plots left to twist, no one-liners that could pull a gasp from the reader’s lips. It was pissing him the fuck off.

He downed the whiskey and ordered two more, determined to out-drink Butch. Maybe he’d hit his head on the counter and that’d be the strike of inspiration he desperately needed. It’d certainly be better than-

“Mister Brick Jojo?”

The stern, feminine voice turned him away from the bar, stopping him dead in his tracks. Its owner was a red-haired woman not much younger than him, displaying a badge in her gloved hand. Her pink eyes studied him head to toe before speaking again.

“Detective Blossom Utonium, Townsville PD.” She pocketed the badge in her black coat. “My team and I have some questions for you.”

* * *

If it weren’t for the light thrumming of his headache, Brick wouldn’t have been sure he was awake. If there was anything he hated more than that pain, it was waiting. And so help him heavens if he were to experience both at the same time…

The stale air of the interrogation room smelled like cleaning supplies. He was sat at the table in the middle, staring listlessly at the LED ceiling lights. The break-room coffee they’d served him tasted like shit, making him regret taking that one experimental sip. Not even the worst hangover he’d experienced could make him take another.

As disgruntled as he was, Brick knew better than to fidget in front of the one-way mirror. In an attempt to recount the happenings of last night, he swung back in his chair and ran a hand through his hair.

The last-minute arrangement he’d made in some run-down Townsville hotel lasted for seven days. He recalled being mildly irked by power going out at eight o’clock before he passed out. The Detective told him not to leave town until the investigation was over. She’d scheduled this meeting without any further explanation, even though he’d asked her what this was all about. Her reasoning had been that the investigation was still ongoing, and thus must not be disclosed to the public. Of course, Brick called bull, but he wasn’t about to tell her that.

Speaking of whom, he couldn’t reach far enough into his mind to remember her image nor her name. All he could remember were a pair of pink eyes and wine-red lipstick. Something inside him was greatly satisfied at the idea of smudging it. Maybe with his lips. Maybe with his fingers. Maybe…

The distinct clack of heels interrupted his reverie, prompting him to face the creaky door as the subject of his thoughts walked in. Her shirt was professionally tucked into her red high-waisted jeans, its collar open enough to showcase a tiny flower pendant on a gold chain. The lipstick was still there – lucky him. Her hair, pulled up into a ponytail, gave his post-drunk brain more than a few ideas as she set down a grey folder. Oddly enough, she reminded him of cherries.

“Hello, Detective.”

“Hello.” The Detective sat on the chair opposite of him, arranging the papers neatly in front of her. “Tell me, Mr. Jojo-”

“Just Brick,” he amended with a raised hand, adjusting the button on his suit’s sleeve.

“… Right.” The Detective coughed. “Tell me, Mr. Jojo, where were you on the evening of the twenty-fifth?”

The twenty-fifth was two days ago. Brick scoffed at her insistence of formality. Fine, he could deal with that. “In my penthouse, in Citysville. I had no plans aside from relaxing.”

“We’ll see about that.” She opened the folder once more, fishing out a plastic wrap of photographs and flipping them over one by one. What he saw on them made his jaw drop.

In the first picture, a middle-aged man was hanging from the ceiling by his foot. His body contorted in the unnatural position, with left ankle over his right knee and his wrists bound together by a fraying rope. An expression of utter terror was etched into his sunken, pale face, what little hair he had on the top of his head falling in white wisps. His suit, sans an appropriate jacket, was stained in the chest area by crimson blood.

The second one was a simple, white-background headshot of the man – the kind they’d put on an ID card. The more natural color of his face would have given Brick comfort, had it not been for the fact that he was clearly dead now.

The other two were mere close-ups from the scene, which Brick didn’t need in order to recognize the _modus operandi._

This was inspired by the first murder-mystery book he published, _The Twelve Cards_ , the first of _The Millionaire Murderer_ series.

To add to his shock, Brick couldn’t, for the life of him, figure out who the victim was.

Noticing his reaction, the Detective crossed her arms as she leaned forward in her chair. “Do you recognize this man?”

He shook his head, swallowing the disturbing taste of horror. “Never seen him in my life.”

She sighed. “His name is Arnold Matisse, 64. CEO of _Matisse Enterprises_ , one of the most powerful tech companies in Townsville.”

He snorted. “Not very powerful if I haven’t heard of it.”

The joke wasn’t well-received, judging by the seething glare she shot him. “Mr. Jojo, this is a murder investigation,” she warned, “Show some respect.”

He bit his lips together. “Pardon.”

“Nevermind.” The Detective pulled out a small notepad, prepared to write down what information he’d given her. “You are completely sure you’ve never met him?”

Brick nodded his confirmation. The scratch of her pen popped a question into his head.

“I have to ask, Detective,” he propped his chin up on his wrists, “How come you went all the way to Citysville for my input on this investigation?”

Her eyes shot up from her writing and looked at him as if the question couldn’t have had a more obvious answer. “Your book, _The Twelve Cards,_ features a murder with the very same MO. It’s only common sense that we call the author – the crime scene followed the book to a T, almost ritualistically. Our profiler said the crime was committed either by an obsessed and grotesquely inspired fan, or the writer of the book himself.”

“How do you know it’s inspired by the book and not the card?” He shrugged. “ _The Hanged Man_ looks just like this. And who reported the body, anyway?”

Her eyebrows rose suspiciously. “You’re not exactly pleading innocent with the questions you’re asking me, Mr. Jojo.”

“Oh I’m not afraid of that,” he lifted his hands in a defensive fashion, “I have nothing to hide, I’m just curious. Y’know, mystery writer stuff.”

She rolled her eyes humorlessly before pulling out a smaller picture from the folder. “There’s a key difference between the scene in the novel and the card.”

Rolling the picture between her fingers, she revealed it to be _The Hanged Man_ from a yellowed tarot deck. “ _The Hanged Man_ wasn’t shot twice in the chest, not in any of the decks my team has double-checked.”

The card fell between the first and the second pictures. “The body was reported to TPD by the victim’s son, Andrew, who claims he found Arnold dead when he came over for dinner the night of the murder.”

He cocked a flirtatious eyebrow at her. “Observant, aren’t you.”

If looks could kill, he would be on the floor. “It’s my job, Mr. Jojo. Frankly, you’re making it harder.”

Just as he was about to voice a filthy joke, her phone beeped. She raised a hand to signal a _just a second_ while answering. “Blossom?”

 _Ah, a pretty name for a pretty woman,_ he figured, finally rid of the mind-boggling headache that recalling her name had brought on. Curious as he was, he eavesdropped on her brief chat until she hung up, her expression one of annoyance.

“You’re coming with me, Mr. Jojo,” Blossom said, “There’s been another mystery-book murder.”

He would have made a pun on _textbook murder_ had he had any idea what the hell was going on.

* * *

Brick’s attempts at making small-talk in the car ride were proven futile. She only told him she was breaching protocol by allowing a civilian to enter the crime scene, but since the chief thought his input was crucial to the investigation, they made an exception for him. It must’ve been more serious than he thought, given how Blossom’s eyes flared with unbridled animosity every time he piped up with a question from the passenger seat. She gave off the impression of someone who was extremely opposed to breaking rules, and hell if he wasn’t going to have fun with that.

“… So is this like a date or something, Blossom?”

It was only his shit luck that the car came to a violent stop at a red light, making him lunge forward and into the dashboard. He clutched his bleeding nose – she pulled that shit on purpose, he was sure.

“There’s this thing called a seatbelt, Mr. Jojo,” she spoke, tight-lipped as she tapped the steering wheel impatiently, “Maybe you should use it.”

Brick searched for a pack of tissues in his pockets, wriggling uncomfortably in his seat. When he finally picked it out, he stuck one in his nose and tutted at her. “No thanks, I like to live dangerously.”

“Noted. Also, _Detective Utonium_ will suffice.”

Sadly, his prayers for a green light went unanswered still. How did Townsville have this kind of shitty traffic?

“Well, if it’s not a date, are you going to tell me where we’re going?” Brick tried again, angry at how nasal his voice sounded over the tissue.

“Townsville Community High School.” She checked her watch. “The principal was discovered dead by a student this morning. I don’t have all the details yet, but we’ll see when we get there.”

Checking the stained tissue, he found that his nose had dried, and stuffed the thing in his pocket. “And what’s that got to do with me?”

Blossom all but glared at him. “You tell me, oh famous writer of _Trip Switch._ ”

He snorted a laugh. “ _Trip Switch_ \- let me guess, strangled to death with their body stuffed into a locker. Blue dress suit, broken glasses and black heels.”

“You know all your crime scenes by heart or something?”

“Writing mystery is about paying close attention to detail. In the end, it’s the details that come together to make a whole and make sense of anything, including crime. You should know, you’re a detective.”

That managed to make her chuckle, and he decided he liked the sound. “If it weren’t somewhat correct, I’d say you were being poetic.”

“What if it was both?”

His bad luck fucked over his flirting game when they pulled up to the school parking lot. The stink of too much Axe body spray and sweat took him back to high school days as they entered the tall gym. They were met with a group of policemen holding back a pack of teens who were, apparently, very invested in the idea of seeing a corpse. Blossom showed her badge and pointed at Brick in a “he’s with me” manner, and they were let through.

They were in a hall that separated into three areas – the showers, the locker room and the actual gym. Heading to the locker room, and past that whole fiasco with the teens, there was a team of forensics and coroners. Blossom greeted them briefly, before turning to Brick in the doorway.

“Stay right here,” she warned.

“What?!” He threw open his arms. “You expect me to just sit here and _not_ get in on the action?”

“There _is_ no action. Either you stay here and wait, or I have the security escort you out. Your choice.”

With that, she swiveled away and toward the back of the locker room. His mind could only offer a simple comment. _What a woman._ Too bad that same mind was hellbent on not listening to her.

Approaching the open locker, he noticed a tiny blonde woman examining a checklist next to it. The disheveled woman’s body stuffed into the locker went unnoticed in favor of realizing how familiar the woman looked. Her hair was neatly tied into two low-hanging buns, the neon-blue shirt under her doctor’s coat accentuating the color of her concentrated eyes. He knew that expression from somewhere, but it was so fresh in his memory that he couldn’t connect it to anyone. Then, his eyes caught sight of her nametag, and it clicked. Bubbles Utonium.

“Can I help you?” She asked, the voice high-pitched like the chirp of a bird.

“No, not at all.” He shook his head and took a good look at the corpse.

“Oh wait, you’re the guy!” She piped up.

_The guy?_

As if reading his mind, she continued. “The guy! The writer Blossom won’t shut up about!” She extended a gloved hand for a handshake. “Bubbles Utonium, coroner. Pleasure to meet you!”

He warily narrowed his eyes at her hand before shaking it. “Uh, Brick Jojo.”

She put her hand over her mouth conspiratorially, like a kid trying to tell a secret. “Don’t tell her I told you, but she’s a big fan. Knows your whole series like the back of her hand. What’s it called again…?”

Well that certainly took him by surprise.

“ _The Millionaire Murderer_ ,” he spoke as confidently as possible, before shifting the subject due to sudden discomfort. “What’s going on here, though?”

At first glance, there was nothing amiss about the corpse of a woman stuffed face-first into a locker. Thanks to her petite stature, the dead Principal fit inside as if it were a funeral-ready coffin. However, Brick immediately caught several… inconsistencies.

“Hey, Bubbles, I- _I told you not to move!_ ”

His eyes shot up to meet those of a disgruntled Detective Utonium. He put on his most shit-eating grin.

“Wrong. You told me to, and I quote: ‘Stay right here.’” Brick gestured to the doorway.

“Semantics – you didn’t listen either way.” Pocketing her hands, Blossom turned to her sister. “What do we have, Bubbles?”

“Sexual tension,” Bubbles coughed, then continued to explain with her pen pointing out certain body parts. “Right, um. Principal Donna Ritz,61. Died around nine o’clock last night, found this morning by a junior student named Joshua Reynolds. No signs of struggle, meaning she was put in this position post-mortem. Two .380 caliber shots to the back, she died instantly.”

“Seem familiar, Mr. Jojo?” Blossom asked.

“It doesn’t.” Folding his arms, Brick gave the body another quick once-over, before turning to a shocked Blossom. “It’s not accurate.”

Bubbles’s eyebrows rose in curiosity. Next to her, Blossom tilted her head. “What do you mean?”

“In the book –” He pointed a finger at the corpse’s attire – “Principal Jameson wore a blue dress suit paired with black heels. Principal Ritz was wearing this tartan-patterned skirt and cardigan, a shirt, and a pair of flats. Not to mention that Principal Jameson was strangled to death, while Principal Ritz was shot. It doesn’t match.”

“It doesn’t match _fully_ , but the inspiration is obvious,” Blossom stated.

“Not exactly.” Brick stood next to her. “Earlier, you said that the murder of Mr. Matisse followed the book to a T, that it was nearly ritualistic. If the murderer was an obsessed fan, as you said, why would they ignore everything I’ve named? Why would they miss every major detail that they obviously nailed in the first crime scene?”

“He’s got a point, Blossy,” Bubbles nodded.

She pinched the bridge of her nose as she formulated her thoughts. “So what you’re saying is, either Matisse’s killer and Ritz’s killer aren’t the same person but have similar MO’s, or the killer _is_ the same person and they’re trying to throw us off-track?”

“Yes, Detective.”

Analytic pink eyes roved over the body several more times, still not fully convinced.

Bubbles shifted next to her. “I’ll run some tests on the bullets in this crime scene and the first one, see if the size matches up. That way we’ll know for sure if the killers are connected.”

“Good. I’ll interview the student, tell Buttercup to check the CCTV footage from the halls.” Blossom crossed her arms, nodding at Bubbles. “I have a meeting set up with Matisse’s personal assistant at two, I’ll see you back at HQ.”

Turning to leave, the two heard Bubbles’s enthusiastic “Bye, good luck!” on their way through the hall. Once they were back on campus, they rushed to the main hall. All he could do was quick-step behind her as she navigated through the space like she knew every nook and cranny. Highschoolers swarmed around them in their rush to and from classes, either paying them little mind or full-on staring like confused owls.

“Now what?” Brick sped up to catch up to her.

“Now you stop following me around like a puppy.”

“Yeah, not happening,” he scratched the back of his neck. “You said you had a student to interview. I’m great with kids! Let me help, Detective!”

“I don’t _need_ your help.” She stuck her pointer at him, keeping him at a distance. “Stay here, or I won’t hesitate to report you to my superiors for obstruction of investigation. Understood?”

Brick gulped down the taste of intimidation at the sight of her furious eyes. “Yes, ma’am.”

Without a second glance his way, the Detective was back on her way to a nearby classroom, leaving him to stand in a crowd of suddenly silent students. A moment later, he noticed their stunned staring and shouted for them to scram, marching to the coffee machine he’d spotted at the end of the hall. Passing by, he noticed she’d entered classroom number eight, and remembered to stop by later.

Searching his pockets for change, he sent a doubtful prayer this school’s coffee was better than the one he had at the police station. The coffee machine was barely standing, littered with various marker scribbles and faded signatures, but at least the plastic cups seemed clean. Brick took a wild guess as to which coffee she liked and ordered a cappuccino with extra sugar, sighing at the machine’s whizzes and groans. Once that was done, he chose an espresso for himself.

The hall had gone quiet with all the students gone to their classes. His shoes tapped impatiently on the floor as the coffee machine whirred and he pondered the cases he was so strangely and loosely involved with.

If he were betting, he’d put his money on an obsessed fan, but that was just his intuition speaking. Proper evidence was yet to be found, and he wasn’t familiar with all of the suspects. Technically, the student Blossom was currently speaking to was a suspect, but that was for her to know and for him to figure out. What puzzled him was the amount of circumstance it all involved, how easy it would be to point a finger at him as the perpetrator if it weren’t for sheer coincidence.

Blossom’s attitude was confounding, to say the least. He’d never met a woman with such drive and passion. If it were paired with an ego the size of his penthouse, he’d find her as annoying as Princess, if not more. However, the Detective’s personality made her nothing short of fascinating.

The echo of heels knocked him out of his thoughts, bringing his eyes back to classroom number eight. Lo and behold, his new muse was exiting, the pout on her face indicating disappointment.

“Coffee?” He smiled, offering her the plastic cup.

“Oh, you didn’t have to,” she sighed, taking it anyway. “Thank you, you really shouldn’t have.”

“I really did, though.” He lifted his own cup apologetically. “Sorry for being an ass.”

“What?” Blossom almost coughed. “No, _I_ wanted to apologize for… all that. I’m not used to working with partners.”

“Oh, I’m a _partner_ now?”

“Don’t make me take it back.”

Brick laughed. “Right. Cheers, Detective.”

They bumped cups, and he took a cautious sip. It wasn’t as bad as he’d expected. Blossom, on the other hand, retched next to him.

“Something wrong?”

“Oh, no,” she belched, “I just hate sweet coffee.”

He snorted a laugh. “Wait, let’s switch. Mine’s espresso.”

“No, you really don’t have to.”

“It’s okay,” he nodded at his cup anyway, “All coffee’s coffee for me, you can take mine.”

Even though she tried to hold back a grin, it broke out on her face as she handed him her cup. Her face ended up in a half-glare-half-smile, her nose scrunching up, which he found oddly charming.

“All coffee is not coffee,” Blossom argued jokingly, sipping on her espresso with a contented expression.

“I beg to differ,” he replied.

“I like my coffee as bitter as my life,” she rolled her eyes, opting to sit on a nearby bench in the hall.

Brick sat next to her. “Damn, and I thought I was the writer here. Mind if I slip that in some manuscript?”

“Heh, only if you offer proper credit, Mr. Jojo.”

A quiet laugh later, silence engulfed them. She broke it with a tired cough.

“The kid is not the perpetrator,” she stated over a sip of coffee.

“How do you know?”

“Too skittish, it doesn’t fit a killer’s profile, and his alibi seems legit for a junior. The other students can confirm it. It’s a dead end.” Her eyes were stuck to the floor, seemingly lost in thought. “All we can do is wait for the CCTV footage, maybe some updates from the autopsies. The rest of my team will be interviewing school staff after hours, we’ll see if something comes up then.”

He nodded, swirling his coffee in his hand. “What about Matisse? You said you’re interviewing his PA.”

She took another sip. “ _Matisse Enterprises_ is famous for nepotism; his PA is actually his daughter, Lauren Matisse-Thompson. She wasn’t there when the body was reported, but it’s good to check Matisse’s daily schedule or family life for any inconsistencies that point to clues. That’s at two p.m., though.”

Brick took a moment to think. “And his son? Andrew?”

“Andrew runs a branch of the company in Toronto, it’s fairly undeveloped but has potential if it were to be supported financially.” The final gulp had her tossing the plastic cup into the trash can next to the bench. “I still have to interrogate him about Principal Ritz’s murder later, but he hasn’t been answering his phone calls and we’re still trying to reach him.”

Standing up, Blossom stretched her arms above her head and let out an exhausted groan. The action caught his attention in the strangest manner, as if he couldn’t tear his eyes away from her. The window behind her backlit her form and if he weren’t more into mystery and horror, he’d describe it as something angelic.

“Wanna pass the time until two?” He dared to ask, prompting her head to shoot up at attention.

“Our ideas of passing time are quite different,” she joked, pocketing her hands once again.

“Try me,” he said, lifting off to throw the cup into the trashcan, “I might just surprise you.”

“Maybe, maybe not,” she shrugged.

As if on cue, her phone buzzed the familiar tune, and she answered. “Blossom?”

Her face shifted to something contemplating, and judging by her affirmative hums, Brick assumed something new popped up.

“Alright, we’ll be there in ten.” She went to hang up, when seemingly a question sounded through the line. “What? ...No, yeah, the writer’s still with me… S-shut up, get back to work, BC.”

Brick sent her a humorous glance. “Updates?”

She pocketed her phone, turning to the exit. “The team found Andrew, he’s at the precinct now. We need to go interrogate him.”

His eyebrows rose inquisitively. “ _We?_ ”

Blossom stopped dead in her tracks, smiling over her shoulder. “I thought you wanted to be in on the action, Mr. Jojo?”

Laughing, he stepped up next to her. “I keep telling you, it’s Brick.”

* * *

The car ride back to the precinct wasn’t as silent as the one from it, much to Blossom’s annoyance. Not because of Brick, because she’d grown used to his antics, but because of the ridiculous topic of flippant conversation. To top it off, he’d invented a nickname for her.

“Holy shit Cherry, what if it _was_ me?!”

“Brick, for the last time, you have a solid alibi. You were in Citysville at the time of the first murder and with me at the time of the second.”

“But what if I _wasn’t_?”

“Oh my god.”

“No no, hear me out!” Brick waved his hands like a conspiracy theorist. “What if I made a lifeless _clone_ of myself and left it in Citysville to chill, while I used my private helicopter to get to Townsville, break into Matisse’s apartment, kill him, and go back like _woosh_ – nothing happened!”

“Brick, I will stop the car, kick you out, and run you over.”

* * *

“Fucking hell, you people need to get a better coffee machine,” Brick retched, throwing his now empty plastic cup in the trash.

“Forget the coffee, get your focus up,” Blossom said, standing in front of the one-way mirror and keeping an eye on the businessman on the other side. Wiping his mouth, Brick rejoined her.

Andrew Matisse was a tall, gangly man, with spindly fingers and beady eyes. The only unruly thing about his appearance was an unkempt, stubbly beard that framed his hollow cheeks and made him seem much older. His suit, paired with an ill-styled purple tie, struggled to catch his form and loosely hung off him, like a toddler wearing an outfit two sizes too big. Sat back in his chair with one leg crossing the other, the man looked unperturbed, if not outright disinterested. He exuded the air of someone who was mildly inconvenienced, rather than that of a suspect in a murder investigation.

Brick observed through the one-way mirror as Andrew checked his watch for the umpteenth time since he entered the interrogation room, like he had somewhere more important to be. Next to him, Blossom raised an eyebrow.

“What are you thinking about?” She asked, eyes never leaving Andrew’s figure.

“What do you mean?” He answered the question with another question.

“Based on what I’ve read of your works –” Blossom crossed her arms behind her back – “you quite enjoy profiling your characters. Tell me what you think of him from his behavior.”

His thumb tucked under his chin as he gave it some serious thought. “…From his fidgety behavior alone, he seems unnerved. That can either be because his father died recently, or because he has something to hide. Then again, I can’t be sure until he speaks for himself.”

Blossom nodded, heading for the door. “Let’s find out, then.”

Following after her, Brick wasn’t surprised when Andrew’s phlegmatic gaze roved over them. He leaned back in his chair, arms coming to an almost defensive fold on the table. Only up-close did he notice the redness around his eyes, veins visible as if he’d been straining not to cry.

“Mr. Matisse,” Blossom greeted, gesturing to the chair next to her, “This is Brick Jojo, he’s assisting the TPD in the case of your father’s death.”

The man’s eyes widened up at him. “Brick Jojo? As in, the writer?”

Brick leaned forward to answer, except Blossom interrupted him. “Are you familiar with his work?”

“Not really, I’m into historical fiction.” Andrew shrugged noncommittally. “My sister is more interested in your genre. Don’t know what that has to do with my father’s murder, though.”

The Detective pulled out her notepad. “Could you describe that day up until you found his body, please? Go into as many details as you can.”

“Of course. I came back to Townsville that morning, my father and I had family-related business to attend to. We spent the noon in the office and agreed to have dinner that night at seven, to settle some deals I made with a European company we have ties to. Until seven, I was at my apartment, having a _Zoom_ meeting with the assistant in my branch in Toronto – I informed him about the changes in our plans and such. Then…” Andrew’s eyes never left the patterned table, like they were following the little lines to keep calm. “I came over to Dad’s building, used the elevator to his apartment, and found him dead.”

Dissatisfied with the answer, Brick posed a question. “How is the company faring? Is business going well?”

It seemed to have caught him off-guard, and Andrew cleared his throat. “As well as it can, considering our financial situation.”

“And why do you say that?” Blossom followed up.

“This is confidential information, but…” He bit his lips together. “Last year, we’ve come across a deficit when prices of certain products rose, due to our provider changing their method of production. We’ve been steadily recovering, but we’ve still got a ways to go.”

“Did Mr. Matisse have any enemies? Entrepreneurial, political, familial…?” Brick asked, “Anyone who could have done something like this?”

“No! Not at all!” Andrew banged his fists on the table. “Dad was a saint! He had no competition in the county or the state, it’s impossible!”

In the Blossom’s hand tapped her cheek, formulating another question. “…Where were you last night around nine?”

He looked at the ceiling, reeling back his memory. “Uh, I was out for dinner at _Jenny’s_ , by the old train station.”

“With whom?” Brick asked.

“By myself.”

“By yourself?”

Andrew smiled mirthlessly, like he just told a bad joke. “Mr. Jojo, real men know they don’t need anyone’s company to stay entertained. Then again, I wouldn’t mind if you accompanied me anywhere, Detective Utonium.”

It was then that Brick decided he disliked Andrew Matisse. He copied his smile, checking his nails. “I’m just saying, let’s hope you have someone who can back up your alibi.”

He flinched. “Alibi? What are you implying here?”

“ _Brick._ ” The Detective seethed, subtly kicking him under the table and keeping a composed smile all the while. “Nothing, Mr. Matisse. Please remain professional, there are still more questions we need to ask you.”

Blossom pulled out her folder, pulling out a photograph of Principal Ritz. “Do you recognize this woman?”

After carefully examining the face, Andrew nodded. “That’s Donna Ritz, she’s the principal of Townsville Community High. Family friend, she used to teach history when I was in school.”

“ _Was_ ,” Brick corrected, “She was found dead this morning.”

Andrew’s mouth went as wide as his eyes. “What? How? No way, I…”

Blossom pursed her lips, hesitating momentarily. “Take your time. Were you two close?”

“Not really,” Andrew shook his head, “We only knew each other from family gatherings here and there, but nothing too personal… Still, it’s a shock. She was a good woman.”

“I understand, it must be tough,” Blossom nodded.

“…Detective, I know this is important, but if you don’t have any more questions for me, I should probably go. I have a testament to read through with my lawyer,” he explained.

She bit her pen, eyeing the notepad. “As far as I’m concerned, this interrogation is over,” she said, before turning to Brick, “Do you have any questions?”

He bored into Andrew in a moment of tense silence, where he considered everything they knew so far. Having found no reason to keep him, Brick shook his head no.

A quiet “thank you” later, Andrew excused himself from the room. The two were left to sit and consider their options.

Blossom kept scribbling on her notepad. After a while, she asked, “Well?”

“Hm?”

“What’s your estimation?”

Brick stared at the ceiling, hoping a proper reply would fall from there. When it unfortunately didn’t, he sighed, “No idea. Check his alibi’s, but other than dining alone, I don’t see anything strange. Then again, I have a sketchy feeling about him.”

“Right.” She marked her writing. “And the train station _is_ kind of close to the school district…”

“Do you think he did it?” He twisted to size up her face, watching the suspicion narrow her eyes and put a pout on her lips.

Clicking the pen, Blossom stretched to grab her phone. “I don’t know. For now, all evidence is circumstantial, I can’t point anything to him.”

She dialed a number and spoke once the ringing ended. “Mitch, check _Jenny’s_ for last night around nine p.m. Ask if Andrew was there, and get Mike to check _Matisse Enterprises_ financial records for last year… Yeah, it’s at two, I’m going with Brick… Shut up, get back to work. Bye.”

Leaning back in his chair, Brick shot her an enigmatic smile. “Well aren’t you a little commandant.”

She chuckled, arranging the photos back into the folder. “You would be, too, if your friends constantly joked about your c- case.”

“Huh, maybe I would.” He stood, straightening out his suit. “What’s next, Detective?”

She glanced at her watch, smirking. “Now we talk to Lauren Matisse. It’s ten to two, just enough time to get to her place.”

He bumped her shoulder as they entered the hall. “And here I was hoping I could take you out to lunch or something.”

Blossom’s shoulders hunched up as she walked, a pink blush tinting her cheeks, before she caught herself and decided to make things interesting in front of the main doors. “How about this – since I’m a detective and you’re _oh so well-informed about murder_ , we can bet on who is the murderer.”

Intrigued, Brick leaned in the doorway. “That depends, what are we betting on?”

She hugged her folder to her chest. “If I win, you sign all my books and we never see each other again.”

A frown graced his features, depressed at the very notion of not speaking to her again. “And if I win…?”

“If you win,” she cocked an eyebrow, offering a hand for a handshake, “you get to take me out on a date. Do we have a deal?”

She might as well have told him he won the lottery, given the Cheshire grin he made.

“It’s a deal, Cherry,” he smirked and took her hand.

“I bet it’s Andrew,” she placed her bet.

His mouth stood agape, offended. “No fair! I wanted to bet that first!”

“Too bad,” she mock-whined, “Bet on someone else, see how it goes.”

Brick groaned. “Fine! Since you want to be ridiculous, I’ll bet on someone ridiculous! I bet it’s Lauren!”

“You haven’t even seen her and you think she’s a killer,” Blossom cackled.

“Shake on it before I change my mind and say it’s me!”

They shook hands, exchanged cocky looks, and headed toward the precinct’s parking lot.

As soon as they entered the car, Blossom’s phone rang. Without much thought, she immediately put it on speaker after seeing ‘Bubbles’ on the contact name.

“Blossom?” she answered.

“Hey, Blossy!” Bubbles squeaked from her end of the line. “I managed to find the caliber of the shell casings in the Matisse investigation, they match up with the ones used on the Principal - .380 caliber bullets.”

“Good job, Bubs, did you find anything else?” Blossom asked.

“My assistants and I continued Matisse’s autopsy this morning, we’re looking at his medical records as we speak.”

“Medical records? Was he sick or something?”

Some shuffling was heard in the background of the call. “His records were kept under a pseudonym for discretion and encoded in the system his private doctor provided us with; it took us longer than we expected to decode it. I’m still reading through them, but as it turns out, Arnold Matisse beat testicular cancer four years ago.”

Brick concealed a wince, prompting Blossom to nudge him into seriousness.

“However, what struck me as odd were his lungs. They’re stiff and misshapen, and I’m running through his records for any lung diseases, but make sure to ask his family about it.”

“We will. Any updates on Principal Ritz?”

“Other than the bullets matching, nothing seems off. Buttercup is still trying to get to the security systems, both at Matisse’s apartment building and the high school, but she keeps running into dead ends.”

An annoyed, rough voice called out in the background. “I’m doing _JUST FINE!_ ”

Blossom pinched her temple, trying not to laugh.

“ _Any_ way,” Bubbles chimed in, “Have you asked him out yet?”

Her eyes instantly widened and she hit the ‘end call’ button at the speed of light, cheeks burning in a vibrant red. Brick held back a glorious cackle, pretending not to have heard it for her sake (and maybe his own, considering he didn’t know if she was joking about running him over).

“Who’s Buttercup?” He humored her anxiety.

“My sister,” she replied, starting the car, “She’s our tech expert.”

“Cool, cool.”

… Yeah, his plan to break the awkward silence wasn’t exactly fruitful.

* * *

The car pulled up to the most typical suburban home at the end of a cul de sac, complete with a doghouse and a swing set in the front yard. A bulldog lay tied to the doghouse, snoring as they crossed the porch and rang the doorbell.

The door was answered by a young, broody man. Casually dressed, he stood at the door and gave them an odd look until Blossom showed her badge.

“Mr. Philip Thompson?”

He shot her badge a wary glance before replying, “…Yes?”

“Detective Blossom Utonium, TPD. We were supposed to meet with your wife. Is she here?”

Before he could reply, a bright lady stepped into view. She looked at them with honey-colored eyes, the same shape as her brother’s. Her chestnut hair curled around her sharp features as she smiled at them.

“Oh, honey, it’s the Detective investigating my father’s…”

She trailed sadly, her shoulders slouching and her gaze drooping with each word. Hearing her tone drop slowly made Brick wish he was horribly, horribly wrong.

“I’m sorry for your loss, ma’am,” Blossom consoled, “We’d like to ask you some questions about your father.”

“Of course, of course,” Lauren agreed, opening up space for them to push past, “Please, come in. Would you like anything to drink?”

Blossom politely denied, moving to the open-plan living room. Brick followed after, casing the space before joining her on the beige couch.

For a lived-in living room, nothing seemed off. Across from them, a wide plasma TV hung on the wall, next to which were a loveseat and some plants. In the middle was a glass coffee table, littered with scraps and magazines of all kind. Brick took notice of one of his books, _Knocking On The Devil’s Door_ , left open face-down on the bottom level. Matter of fact, a bookshelf to their right had a whole row of just his books, title by title of the whole _The Millionaire Murderer_ series. Behind the couch was a small dining room area and kitchen, decorated in varying shades of beige and gold. It felt like a family house, something Brick wasn’t entirely familiar with, thus giving him a sense of nostalgia for something he didn’t know.

Lauren and Philip settled in the loveseat, with Lauren bouncing her leg and Philip crossing his arms. Blossom cleared her throat.

“I suppose I should introduce us first, I’m detective Blossom Utonium, I work for TPD, and this is Brick Jojo, he is assisting in the case of your father’s murder.”

The woman’s eyes instantly widened. “B-Brick Jojo, like the writer?”

Brick faked a toothy smile. “The very same, ma’am.”

“Oh, I’m such a big fan!” Her hands began to shake with excitement. “I’ve read and re-read your whole series, and I’m waiting to get my hands on the newest book!”

“That’s wonderful, I’m glad you enjoy my work,” he nodded, internally begging Blossom to speak up.

“I have to ask, though – what does a great writer have to do with the murder of my father?” Lauren’s eyebrows curled upwards in worry.

It then dawned on Brick that she might not have seen the crime scene.

“We suspect the murderer was copying the MO’s of Mr. Jojo’s characters in the books.” Blossom pulled her folder out of her bag. “The crime scene and the way your father died match the description in the book _The Twelve Cards_. Do you want to see it?”

Lauren pulled a face like she was going to puke, putting her hand over her mouth as tears pooled in the corners of her eyes. “No, I’d rather not. Thank you.”

“How was your relationship to your father, Mrs. Matisse-Thompson?” She asked, folding her hands in her lap.

“It was great! We got along well, I worked as his PA for the last… six or so years, he hired me immediately after I graduated college.” She crossed one leg over the other, steadying her hands on the top knee to keep it from bouncing.

“Your brother mentioned a testament,” Brick inquired, “Were you part of it?”

Lauren began to twiddle her thumbs over her knee, her lips twisting with discomfort. “Dad wrote a testament when he was diagnosed with Pulmonary Fibrosis four years ago, he named me as the heir to _Matisse Enterprises._ ”

He could almost hear the gears turning in Blossom’s head, meticulously crafting a question to follow up with. “Your father had Pulmonary Fibrosis?”

“Yes,” Lauren sighed, “He contracted it after taking bleomycin for cancer, and when he found out that the chance of him living more than five years since diagnosis, he wrote a testament.”

“It’s a shame,” Philip rested his hand on her shoulder, “Her father was a good man, and he didn’t even get to hear that… that…” His hand ran down his face, frustrated and sad all the same.

“We wanted to the whole family together this weekend,” Lauren shook her head with a smile that lacked happiness, “I’m pregnant, you see. We had a whole announcement planned for our families and then all this happened and…”

Brick’s hopes for Lauren to be innocent rose higher and higher, threatening to bring him to tears. He shot Blossom a discreet glance, checking up, only to find her gripping her folder as if for dear life. Still, she kept up her composure.

“I’m sorry to hear that... Was your brother included in the testament?” Blossom asked.

“He was – his inheritance covers the full ownership of our Canadian branch, as opposed to me keeping it like Dad did.” Her fingers fiddled with the long sleeve of her shirt.

“And how is your relationship with your brother?” Brick beat Blossom to the question.

“We’re close! Actually, he just visited this morning, to talk to me about funeral arrangements. I told him we’d have to go to a funeral home sometime soon, but he stayed for coffee and we had a chat.”

“Alright.” Blossom opened up her folder, shuffling through several files before picking one. “Where were you on the evening of the twenty-fifth?”

“Twenty-fifth?” Philip’s back rose from the loveseat as he leaned closer to his wife. “Wasn’t that the day you went to Arnold’s apartment?”

“Yes! You’re right,” Lauren confirmed. “Two days ago, I went to Dad’s apartment to talk about the plan I proposed for increasing our profits. We agreed on letting a team of interns try their hand at it, and if it worked, we’d proceed to incorporate it into our regular plan. I left around six and arrived home at eight.”

“And you, Mr. Thompson?” A scary question flashed in Brick’s mind, equally as scary as Lauren being guilty.

“I was out of town, I came back yesterday at five p.m.” Philip shrugged. “We video-chat a lot when I’m out on business, so I knew she went to see her father.”

Blossom gave it some thought, before continuing. “…How about yesterday around nine?”

“We were at home, having a movie marathon. I was too tired to go on a date like we usually do after one of us comes back from a business trip, so we watched movies until midnight,” Philip explained.

Nodding, Blossom fished out a photo of Principal Ritz. “Do you recognize this woman?”

Lauren and Philip closely examined the picture, and Lauren spoke. “That’s Donna Ritz, my late mother’s close friend. She was invited to a lot of family events, even after her death… Family friend.”

Brick couldn’t tell how this much stress could affect a pregnant woman, but knew the news would be broken sooner or later. Blossom, apparently, settled for sooner.

“She died last night,” she announced, “I’m sorry to inform you like this.”

Lauren’s eyes began to glisten with unshed tears. “Was she murdered, too?”

“We have reasons to believe your father’s murder and her murder were somehow connected. Maybe they were killed by the same person, because the crime scenes follow the ones in Mr. Jojo’s books.”

“I’m sorry for your loss,” Brick voiced his sorrow.

“… Thank you, both of you,” Philip nodded slowly.

“Thank you for your cooperation, I don’t have any more questions for you.” Blossom gathered her papers and placed them in her bag before standing up. “However, would you mind giving us a tour of your home? If you don’t want to, I can come back with a search warrant, but I’d like to look around.”

Brick was about to make a comment when he noticed the gesture she was making. It was a quirk he’s given to Johnny Davidson – he would scratch the tip of his nose and pointedly stare at his partner whenever he thought something was suspicious, which is exactly what Blossom was doing. The scratch of the nose was a warning. He swallowed roughly, playing along to her ploy without complaint.

Lauren shrugged as she stood. “Of course, we have nothing to hide,” she smiled, the lines around her eyes crinkling, “Please, follow me.”

“Are you sure you wouldn’t like anything to drink?” Philip offered, pocketing his hands as he walked to the kitchen.

Blossom and Brick declined, following Lauren up the wide staircase to the top floor.

At the top was a hall with its walls covered in framed photos and bookshelves, leading to two doors on the right and one on the left.

“Over there is our bedroom and a bath, and on the left is my study,” Lauren pointed out, moving to stand in the middle of the hall. “Feel free to look around! If you have any questions, I’ll be here.”

Brick nodded to Blossom. “I’ll take a look at the study, you can check out the other two.”

She nodded back, shooting him a significant glare. _Call me if you find something._

The door creaked open as he entered, worrying more with each step. A deep, forest green was painted over the walls, making the room appear smaller than it was. Dim light poured in from the tall window, washing over a wide desk and a spinning black desk chair. One wall was entirely a bookshelf, filled with books and knick-knacks of all kind.

What caught his eye was one of the drawers, slightly ajar, as if begging to be opened. Brick stepped toward it, daring to pull the handle enough to peek inside. His gut twisted at the sight.

In the drawer was a pair of black gloves and a gun.

Jaw clenched, Brick tried to come to any conclusion other than the obvious one. Being clever was a fucking curse, he figured, sweat pooling on his brow with every thought that crossed his mind. For the first time, he wanted his assumption to be entirely off-base.

He choked before calling out, “Detective!”

Blossom poked her head into the room. “What did you find?”

He stepped aside, letting her look for herself. Just like he did moments before, she froze up, brows knitting together. They shared a glance of complete shock, minds running a mile a minute, until Blossom pulled out a pair of rubber gloves and took hold of the evidence. Turning the weapon in her hands, she frowned at the initials on the grip: _LMT._ She focused on the barrel, the caliber inscribed in clear numbers. _0.380._

As if estimating the exact moment of their realization, Lauren stepped into the doorway. “Is something wrong, Detective?”

Not one to stare a metaphorical evidence-horse in the teeth, Blossom turned to the woman, brandishing the gloves and the gun. He could see the light in Lauren’s eyes falter, her hands coming to a fold over her chest.

“Mrs. Matisse-Thompson,” Blossom enunciated slowly, “You need to come with us.”

* * *

Sitting in the precinct’s hall felt hopeless. The wall behind him dulled the interrogation going on in the other room, Blossom’s stern voice keeping him grounded. Lauren’s lawyer had joined them, butting into the conversation and pissing Blossom off at any given moment. Meanwhile, Brick held his head in his hands, keeled over his seat as if he pulled the trigger himself.

The past few hours played on repeat in his head, guilt overcoming him like a tidal wave. He felt as if he’d indirectly caused it, either by writing the damn books or by betting on Lauren. The hour he spent waiting felt like a century, his mind keeping him occupied with details of each circumstance, each possibility, each outcome. He refused to believe Lauren Matisse-Thompson was a murderer.

 _What would Johnny Davidson do?_ he wondered, then shook his head. _He’s dead, dumbass, you killed him off. Just like someone killed Arnold Matisse, just like someone killed Donna Ritz._

A pitiful groan escaped him as he overheard the end of the conversation.

“Mrs. Matisse-Thompson,” Blossom said, “The investigation is still ongoing, we’re doing everything we can, but I have to inform you – first-degree murder usually ends in a life sentence.”

“Detective,” Lauren’s lawyer’s voice came, “My client has told you multiple times, she doesn’t know where the gun came from”

“I want to believe her, I really do,” Blossom reassured, “But all evidence is currently pointing to Lauren. We need to gather more information, please keep cooperating with us until we get to the bottom of this.”

A pause followed, in which Brick swore he heard the woman inhaling shakily.

“Alright… Alright, I-I understand… Detective, please,” Lauren pleaded, “Arrest my father’s killer.”

Another pause – Brick guessed that Blossom nodded, given how soft the reply was. “Of course. Goodbye.”

Blossom opened the door, letting the women out with a somber expression. Her shoulders slouching and her arms shaking, Lauren looked as if she’d stared death in the eyes. She moved past him, nodding in acknowledgement, before falling into hushed discussion with her lawyer.

Once they’d rounded the corner, Blossom let her features fall, holding her forehead to prepare an impending headache.

Before he could invite her to take a seat, a pair of men bound up to them, breath heavy from the rush. The two seemed to notice Brick in the last moment, turning to Blossom to ask.

“Ah, hey, is this the guy?” The blond one asked, adjusting his glasses.

“Yes,” Blossom murmured, eyes scrunched up with exhaustion.

“Daaamn, girl.” The brunet one hooted, shaking his hand almost violently. “Mitch Mitchelson, and this is my main dude, Mike Believe.”

“ _Partner,_ ” Mike corrected, irritation obvious in his tone.

“Brick Jojo,” he introduced himself, both already intrigued and already annoyed by the duo.

“What’s the rush? You ran in here like no tomorrow,” Blossom asked, planting her hands on her hips.

“Oh, yeah, shit,” Mitch pointed his finger up. “Andrew’s alibi checks out, he was at _Jenny’s_ the night of Arnold’s murder.”

“The company deficit story checks out, too,” Mike added. “The plan Lauren mentioned isn’t yet run in the company planners, since it’s recent and still going through the interns’ test first.”

Brick’s mouth went dry at the mere mention of her name. Tension eased off of his shoulders when Blossom sat down, but not enough to stop the anxious twist in his gut. She rubbed her chin, seemingly in the same state of mind as him.

“I can’t believe this is happening,” she commented, her head drooping as if it were about to roll right off her shoulders. “I need to… I need to go clear my head.”

Then, Mitch and Mike led a wordless conversation where they used gestures to indicate any meaning: Mike looked at her and toward the coffee machine, Mitch shook his head and tipped his chin down at Blossom, Mike sent a brief glance to Brick and back to him. It was so simple, Brick understood every unspoken word of it. Mitch nodded, and then spoke.

“We’re gonna go check up on the gun situation, see if the weapon experts found anything,” Mitch said, lazily scratching his head. “You take a break, you’ve been on your feet all day.”

“Don’t tell me what to do,” she laughed tiredly.

Mike shrugged, turning to leave along with Mitch. “Yeah, sorry, we forgot – _Commander and leader_ things.” He stopped to jokingly salute Brick. “Nice meeting you, man.”

“Yeah, same,” was all Brick could offer as he watched them go.

After that, he was deeply disappointed with himself. He was a _writer_ , for fuck’s sake, why couldn’t he find any words to say to her? As comforting as the idea of a date sounded, it felt absolutely foul to mention it now. As unpleasant as he could be, Brick had boundaries – he wasn’t that kind of man. She slouched forward, her elbows on her knees, and he was overwhelmed with the need to pat her back. Still, he wasn’t certain she’d appreciate that, and kept his sweating hands to himself.

His peering didn’t go unnoticed, it seemed, as she leveled his gaze with her own, curious one.

“What are you thinking about?” Blossom asked, voice croaky as if she’d been sleeping.

He copied her posture, avoiding her eyes. “I’m wishing I’m wrong.”

Her laugh lacked happiness. “And lose the bet?”

“… I don’t think it matters anymore. It’s like… miniscule, in comparison to everything right now. If it’s that woman and her baby’s lives versus my bet, I want to lose.”

What she did next, he thought unimaginable. Blossom leaned on his shoulder.

“Is this what it feels like when you kill your characters?” She half-joked in an attempt to lighten the air.

He hummed, feeling daring enough to place his head on top of hers. She didn’t shuffle away. He contemplated her question.

The precinct’s sounds filled the time he used to think. In times when he couldn’t get out of his own head, it was good to focus on what was “in the now”, what he could control, what he could feel. The shuffle of paper, the tap of shoes against tiles, the hum of computers, printers, and fax machines, the hiss of that godforsaken coffee maker – there was so much white noise to pick apart, and so little time to compose himself.

“No,” he finally said. “The characters I kill are fictional, therefore lacking emotional value. In books, a character can be seen from many points of view at different points in time, you can see them struggle and win, fall apart and come together. It’s not the same thing with real people.”

“How is that lacking emotional value?” Her cheek shifted against his shoulder.

“…I like to think it’s the beauty of people, in a sense.” His eyes darted across the floor, like he was stringing together the sentence as he went. “When you meet someone, no matter what you think of them, you only know the part of them you see, and only for a short period of time. You never fully know someone. I mean, you could _technically_ argue you know someone fully after you’ve known each other for long enough, but you don’t – you’re still missing what’s going on in their head, in their heart. ”

“And that’s beautiful because…?”

“Because you can spend a lifetime piecing together bits of personalities of the people around you, deciding which bits you like, and developing them yourself. That’s how we grow, I think,” he smiled. “…Sorry, I’m rambling.”

“No, don’t be sorry,” Blossom said, lifting off of him. “I think you have a point somewhere in there.”

“I do?” he chuckled, though “I want to know you” threatened to slip off the tip of his tongue.

“Yeah.” She tapped her cheek thoughtfully. “Something about this case feels off, like we’re constantly missing something important.”

Somewhere distant, hurried steps made themselves known as they ran around desks and chairs in search of someone. The person they belonged to nearly crashed into the wall, skidding to a stop at the start of the hall. She wore all black, save for the puffy jacket several sizes too large, its neon green bright enough to make a designer wince. Her choppy black hair framed her sharp cheekbones in a messy bob with bangs. The woman reached her knees, face red and coughing to catch her breath.

“Buttercup…?” Blossom narrowed her eyes, standing to get to her. “Did you run all the way from the computer lab?”

“Shut up, elevator’s fuckin’ broken again,” Buttercup wheezed. “Nearly fell down the stairs… You gotta see this…”

“Why didn’t you just call me on the phone?”

“You put it on silent again, didn’t you?!” She gave a half-hearted screech, still too out of breath. “I called you like, three times!”

Blossom looked embarrassed. “Oops, I’m sorry.”

She rolled her eyes. “Never mind, let’s just go. I think I might have cracked the case with this.”

That had Brick scrambling to his feet. “Well what are we waiting for! Let’s go!”

Buttercup straightened up, sizing him up before turning to Blossom. “That’s the writer?”

Blossom hesitated, then nodded yes shakily.

She kissed her teeth, “I approve.”

“Buttercup!” She squeaked and hit her shoulder lightly, which he found oddly adorable.

“Alright, alright!” Buttercup cackled and stretched. “Ah, shit, I just realized I gotta climb _up_ the stairs now. Bloss, would you carry me?”

* * *

Thankfully for Blossom, no carrying occurred, and they arrived to the computer lab of the precinct. Several other tech experts hung around the dark room, though they paid them no mind and kept working at their desks. Buttercup oozed exhaustion as she showed them to her desk, littered with energy drink cans and empty coffee cups. Opening a drawer to fetch another one from her stash, she turned her laptop back on. They moved to stand around her chair as she searched through some folders, finally satisfied when she found what she’d been looking for – a video file.

“Okay, let me start with some background info,” She cracked her knuckles and pointed a pen, gesturing for them to observe the screen. Nothing about the video was strange – it was the main hall of the school, lit up and completely empty. The time stamp marked 08:55:32 p.m.

“According to witnesses, Principal Ritz was working late due to fixing a deep-rooted filing mistake from earlier this month. All school staff had already gone home around six, leaving her in the principal’s office. Security camera footage confirms this, _however_ -” Buttercup waved her pen and, as if on cue, the video cut to a black screen at 08:57:44 – “the power went out just before 9 p.m.”

“Which is the estimated time of death,” Blossom mumbled.

“Precisely,” Buttercup said, taking a sip of her energy drink. “This was the reason it took me longer than usual to procure the security footage.”

“Is it a regular thing for power to go out like this?” Brick asked. “A power outage also happened the night I arrived at my hotel.”

“It’s not, in buildings as old as hotel _Liberty_ it mostly happens due to old wiring. I heard they haven’t upgraded it since the 80’s.” She spun in her chair. “What’s puzzling is that Townsville Community High School is praised as the most technologically advanced school in the county. The wiring was upgraded after the flood last year, meaning that…”

“…the power was purposely shut off,” Blossom finished.

“Yes. None of the cameras captured the perpetrator. But this leads us directly to the footage of Matisse’s apartment building.” She clicked to the following file. It loaded to a video of a luxurious lobby, tilted to show the reception counter, the stairs and the elevator doors. A disinterested receptionist stood behind the counter, greeting the people coming in. Buttercup pushed a button to fast forward to a timestamp: 05:00:07 p.m. “Pay attention to who’s entering the building and when.”

Their eyes stayed glued to the screen until they recognized the figure of one Lauren Matisse-Thompson, entering a few seconds later. She waved to the receptionist and entered the elevator.

Buttercup fast-forwarded the video to about an hour later, which showed the woman leaving the building.

“Okay, so her alibi checks out,” Brick crossed his arms.

“Pay attention now,” Buttercup announced. “About fifteen minutes later, a package arrives, and guess who comes to pick it up?”

Exactly as she said it, the elevator doors pinged open to reveal none other than Arnold Matisse. He grinned as he approached the reception, took his package, and disappeared back into the elevator.

Blossom and Brick exchanged an incredulous look, stuck between shock and joy. It might not have been Lauren.

“I’ll skip until the important part. This is where I think we got him.” Buttercup did as she said, sipping on her energy drink. “Six fifty-four and –” the screen goes black – “the power goes out.”

“But how did he know there would be a power outage?” Brick asked.

“Because he set it up,” Blossom concluded. “ _Matisse Enterprises_ owns one of the three power plants in the industrial ward, it powers half the city. It’s only logical that it powers the building their CEO lives in.”

“If you can prove that in court, we got this one in the bag,” Buttercup commented, planting her feet up on the side of the desk.

“We need more solid proof,” Blossom shook her head. “It’s all circumstantial and his alibi on the Ritz case is still valid, we need info on the gun and the gloves ASAP.”

“What about motive?” Brick piped up, sitting on the edge of the desk. “If it was a premeditated murder, which it really looks like, what could have motivated him?”

“It’s obvious – the testament.” Blossom tapped her chin with her thumb. “He mentioned the company was struggling financially, if the sum was large enough, his inheritance would help overcome it. However, Lauren said _she_ was named as the heir to _Matisse Enterprises_. That would have put a dent in Andrew’s plans, so he killed his father and tried to pin it on his sister to disinherit her. If she received a life sentence, she wouldn’t be able to receive the inheritance.”

“That would explain the Matisse murder,” Buttercup threw the can into the trash, “but what about Ritz?”

“He wanted to make it seem like the doing of an obsessed fan, or more precisely, his sister,” Brick hypothesized. “But he wasn’t detailed enough. The first murder was purposefully following the book to a T, not because he wanted to, but because he was angry.”

He stood from the desk, beginning to pace around it as he talked. “Imagine going to that dinner with your father, talking to him about the testament, being _convinced_ that your sister’s plan is a failure, only for him to reject you anyway…” Brick shaped his fingers like a gun, pulling back the thumb and aiming the forefinger nowhere in particular.

“You’re bitter, you’re tired of being second-best while your sister not only gets your father’s attention, but the family business as well. So you take the gun you stealthily hid in your bag, waiting for the right moment to strike. And when he asks you to leave mid-argument, the trigger is all too easy to pull… But you want more. You want him tortured, upside-down, hanging by his foot like a pig to slaughter. You want him to pay _._ You want _your sister_ to pay. But how?”

His thumb lowered and he continued, slightly bemused by the way their eyes followed him through the narrative. “By framing her for your father’s murder, and committing another to make sure it’s all pinned on her. And it’s easy enough, because she’s a big fan of murder mystery novels – what better way to frame her than to imitate the murders in her favorite series? …Except that’s where it went painfully wrong, when he didn’t pay enough attention, made sloppy work of the key details, and ultimately ended up incriminating himself.”

Silence hung around after he stopped, two pairs of eyes boring into him like a madman. Finally, Blossom cleared her throat.

“That’s a good story, Brick,” she said, “but that’s all it is – a story. We still need more evidence if we wa-”

She was interrupted by Buttercup’s phone, the loud guitar riff like something out of an action movie ripping their attention away from the topic at hand. She answered it casually, “BC? …In the computer lab… Yeah, they’re with me… Okay… Right, anything else? Okay, talk to you later.”

“What is it?” Blossom asked.

“Mitch found the provider of the weapon. The gun was bought a week ago in a shop downtown under a pseudonym, but when he showed the owner a picture of Andrew, he recognized him immediately,” Buttercup spun in her chair with a victorious smirk. “To top it off, Mike double-checked _Jenny’s_ just in case. Turns out, the night-shift waiter was bribed to lie for him. Andrew left the restaurant at half past eight.”

“Which gives him half an hour to get to the school and commit the murder at lights-out,” Blossom banged her fists against the desk.

“We’ve got him,” Brick breathed, grinning wildly.

Her shoulders sagged with relief as she led him out and to the exit. “Let’s go arrest that prick.”

* * *

The following evening, Brick was on a video call with his brothers as he drove to an apartment building in the city centre. With the Sun slowly dipping into the sea and bathing the sky in darker shades of purple, he recounted the investigation to them with added flair.

“And what happened when you arrested him?! Was there a fight scene? Guns blazing? Fire? Gore?” Butch asked, eyes aglow with excitement.

“No, no, no, aaand no,” Brick laughed.

“Then I don’t wanna hear it,” he replied, burying his head in the pillow he was resting on.

“Butch!” Boomer shoved him, eliciting loud laughter from both of his brothers.

That morning’s newspaper sat on the passenger seat, opened to the article that interested him the most. _Electric Shock: Matisse Enterprises Heir Andrew Matisse Arrested Under Homicide Charges!_ , the title read above a picture of Andrew being taken away by the cops.

Brick smiled down at it, struck by a vivid memory of Blossom clasping handcuffs around Andrew’s wrists with the most confident stride he’d ever seen. After a long and aggressive interrogation with all the new evidence being brought up, Andrew confessed in a blind rage. The narrative he gave was all too perfect, tickling the author’s inspiration with each livid sentence. A trial was scheduled in two days, and while Brick wasn’t interested in attending, he was interested in sticking around a certain red-haired muse.

To his pleasant surprise, she was the one who’d brought up the idea of a date after the arrest. “To celebrate your first solved murder,” she’d claimed. Being as taken as he was by her brilliance, Brick agreed without hesitation.

“I gotta go, see you soon,” Brick nodded to his phone.

“Bye!” Boomer waved.

“Use protection, bitch,” Butch pointed a warning finger at the camera before he hung up.

His tires skidded across the parking lot as he arrived, the building’s windows shining golden. Apartment 5B, she’d said. He left the car, carrying a single rose and straightening the sleeves of his suit jacket.

Five floors up and a right turn later, he rang the doorbell to apartment 5B.

He didn’t have to wait long before a familiar face opened the door, taking his breath away. A black dress clung to her form, the silky material draping down to her ankles. Just a few centimetres taller in her red heels, she carried a sequined red bag, smiling up at him in acknowledgement. As many words as he’d written in his lifetime, the only word that came to mind was _magnificent._

“Hello,” she said.

“Hi.” He coughed to cover the crack in his voice and handed her the rose, offering his elbow. “Shall we?”

Blossom brought the flower to her nose, doe-like eyes sizing him up before holding onto him. “We shall,” she giggled, and if someone had asked him how he got this far or how far this would go, he would’ve been speechless.

He had a hunch that six months for a new manuscript was suddenly more than enough.

**Author's Note:**

> my tumblr: https://quarantined-fics.tumblr.com/


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